It was beginning to get light, and not long after sunrise a buggy driven by an employee from Clark’s stopped at the foot of the hill leading to the cottage. Mark saw Fanny as she ran up the path, and went to meet her. In her flushed, eager face there was a look which he had seen often in his own face when he was a boy, and this it was which made him call her “My child” as he led her into the house and told her how low Inez was and how necessary that she should be kept quiet and not excited in any way. “Her mother died of heart trouble. Inez may go the same way if we are not careful,” he said. “I will be very careful,” Fanny answered, as she followed him to Inez’s room. The curtains were drawn over the windows, but it was light enough for Fanny to see the great change in Inez. Her eyes were sunken, but unnaturally bright. There was a drawn look about her mouth and her cheeks had lost much of their roundness, but were red with fever spots, which contrasted sharply with the pallor of her lips. “Fanny, oh Fanny! I am so glad you have come,” she said, trying to rise and opening and shutting her fingers rapidly. Then exerting all her strength she threw her arms around Fanny’s neck and burst into tears while her father tried to quiet her. “Don’t stop me,” she said. “I must cry or my heart will burst, and my head, too,—it aches so hard. Fanny, Fanny! You don’t know all your coming to me means. Now put me back on my pillow and sit where I can see you without turning my eyes. I am tired all over.” Her arms fell helpless on the bed and she scarcely seemed to breathe. “I don’t understand it,” Fanny said in a low tone to Mr. Hilton. Inez heard her and before her father could reply she whispered, “Don’t try to understand, or speak of it. Just sit by me.” All day Fanny sat by her, knowing that whenever Inez’s eyes were open, they were fixed on her with a look which began to make her uncomfortable. “What is it, Inez? Is there something you want to tell me?” she asked at last. Inez did not answer at once, but her hand moved slowly towards Fanny’s, which chanced to be lying on the bed near her. For a time she regarded it intently, evidently contrasting its whiteness and softness with her own larger brown hands. “We are not much alike, but you love me and are not ashamed of me,” she said. “Ashamed of you!” Fanny repeated. “Why should I be?” “And you will stay with me? It can’t be long,” Inez continued. “Yes, I will stay,” Fanny answered involuntarily. Then she remembered her mother, who was expecting her back that night, or the next day, at the farthest. What would she say? “I’ll stay a week any way. Inez must be better by that time,” she thought, and wrote to her mother to that effect, suggesting that if she were not comfortable at Clark’s she go on to San Francisco, where she would join her later.